


Officer Hale Makes A Housecall

by Hopie (hopiecat)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopiecat/pseuds/Hopie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek isn't sure he likes this whole 'spice up your love life' thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Officer Hale Makes A Housecall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocketsinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketsinflight/gifts).



> Based on that picture that's floating around the internet of Tyler Hoechlin dressed as a cop, and also due to a conversation I had with a friend of mine, Jen, who's just all around fantastic. It's also set when they're a little older -- Stiles is around nineteen here.

Derek felt like a complete idiot. There was something fundamentally _wrong_ with the situation that he found himself in, and it was a pretty obvious ‘something’ to anyone who (he really, really didn’t like the thought of this) caught sight of him in this silly getup.

He was sitting outside, in Stiles’ borrowed truck, in a cop’s uniform purchased from a shady adult store in the northern part of Beacon Hills, which he never, ever, ever, _ever_ wanted to go back into again.

 _Of all the stupid-ass things you’ve done_ , _this has to rank top three. Maybe fourth. Maybe I should just stay out here and not go into the house because Stiles is Stiles and he’ll make a big deal out of this costume_. He hadn’t taken a good look at it in the shop, but it looked authentic. Well, except for the badge pinned to his chest that read ‘Officer Naughty’ and the vibrating nightstick—he was never going to go inside ever again. This was certain now. He’d spend the rest of his days living in Stiles’ truck, eating small rabbits for nourishment, until the police outfit was devoured by moths.

Lights flashed behind him and a car sped down the road. Derek hunkered further down in his seat, watching the car until it rounded the corner. The ridiculousness of the situation was something that he was very well aware of, but what exactly was he going to say if the guy driving that car was Jackson? There were only so many ways an ‘I’m the fucking Alpha, do as I say’ glare could work, and virtually none of them were applicable when the alpha was dressed like an out of work stripper.    

Okay. The coast was clear. He was going to try for the door.

Cautiously, Derek killed the engine and opened the car door. Beacon Hills was in the death-grip of winter and ice frosted the roads, the sidewalk, the air so that when he breathed in, it felt like snowflakes were gathering in his lungs. Stiles was probably freezing up there; the heating wasn’t all the best in his apartment.

The cop’s shirt had short sleeves, and he felt the bite of the breeze on his forearms as he walked to the apartment building, trying very hard to look natural and to blend in. There wasn’t anyone around here, yet, but in his experience, a wolf in Beacon Hills could never be too careful. Things had a way of sneaking up on you. And, granted, he couldn’t smell anyone or hear anyone, but that was beside the point.

Unlocking the front door with his key, Derek slunk in and kept to the shadows.

 _Stiles better appreciate this_ , he thought grimly, taking the stairs as quickly as he could.

 

. . . . .

 

When Derek Hale – badass Alpha, super wolf and all around scary dude – went out and didn’t come back immediately, Stiles didn’t worry. He did the opposite of worry. He did things that, were Derek there, wouldn’t get done. Like shop for food. And watch television. And read books instead of starting to read books, and then getting swamped by Derek being _Derek_ and Derek’s mouth being where it wasn’t supposed to be. All of that was good, however now it was nine o’clock, it was getting dark, and he was slightly worried. Hey, in the fairytale, the big, bad-ass wolf hadn’t ended up so well.  


Then again, it wasn’t likely that Derek had just happened to spy someone in a red hoodie and followed them. Or that he’d eaten a grandmother. Wouldn’t grandmothers have too much gristle and chewiness for him to digest? Come to think of it, how was a wolf supposed to put on _clothes_? Fairytales were weird.  

Where the hell was he? Stiles scowled and moved to push himself off the bed when he heard the front door click. Audibly. Relaxing, he leaned back against the pillows again, turning his attention back to the news report playing out on the television (“Haunted House ghosts attack people partying in the attic”) and waited. Derek was nothing if not---

\--What on earth was he wearing?

There, in the doorway, stood Derek Hale, but definitely not as he’d gone out. For one thing, this Derek Hale was in a blue uniform shirt with a gold badge on the left side. And tight ‘wiggle out of them’ black slacks. He even had the long, oddly phallic nightstick, and what Stiles was _pretty_ sure was a fake gun, and also what he was not quite so sure was a fake knife.

In short, Derek had gone out dressed like his regular biker-with-an-authority-problem self, and he’d apparently run into the Village People on the way home and joined them as an unofficial sixth member.

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off him. Okay, the outfit was really, really corny, but it also fit Derek pretty well – tapered to every taut, muscled line, to every ripple and curve of sinew, and the way those slacks _hugged_ (literally, this was the only occasion he could think of where the fabric actually seemed to hug) Derek’s legs was kind of like a work of art. Sitting up, he bit his lower lip, letting his eyes slide down Derek’s body and then, slowly, back up again.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Mister Wolf was a _little_ bit nervous or he’d eaten the aforementioned grandmother and she was giving him problems.

 _Nope. Nervous. Aw, he’s almost_ blushing _,_ Stiles thought, with too much glee.  “Uh… What are you wearing?”

Derek’s shoulders deflated. For a few minutes the air practically _crackled_ with silence, and Stiles was really, really, really reconsidering talking at all. Then, Derek pulled out his nightstick and pointed it in his direction.

It vibrated.

Loudly.

“I got a tip off,” said Derek, his voice low and husky, “… that there’s a code 187 about to go down here.”

Stiles nodded, reaching up to wedge his knuckle between his teeth. It shouldn’t have been funny, considering he couldn’t even tell if Derek was joking or not, but between the outfit and the, well, _Derek_ , he was having a hard time keeping himself from snickering.

Derek narrowed his eyes which, if possible, made the whole situation even funnier. “…. What? Did I say it wrong? Is it the outfit?”

Shaking his head, Stiles pulled his knuckle from beneath his teeth.  


“… Code one-eight-seven’s a homicide, Der,” he told him, as cheerfully as he could without breaking out laughing, “wh-what you wanted to say was a code two-eight-eight, that’s lewd conduct.”

Derek just stared. He switched off the vibration on the nightstick (where the hell had he gotten such a thing, Stiles _really_ wanted to know) and walked over to the bed, but rather than proceed with the whole ‘ravishing’ thing, he sat down and popped open the buttons on his shirt. At least two fell to the floor.

“… You’re the kind of guy who analyzes porn storylines, aren’t you?” asked Derek, scowling, “I mean – I put myself in this stupid thing—“

“—and you look good!”

“And the first thing you tell me is that I got the code wrong? It’s not _meant_ —“

“Dude, my dad’s a cop. By the way, a _cop_ uniform? Uh, Electra complex much?” Stiles rolled his eyes, unable to keep from grinning now. Aside from the Freudian overtones, the situation was pretty much a laugh. Not that Derek would see the funny side. Not that Derek saw _any_ funny side.  


Derek’s scowl darkened.

“… What? I put this on because you were flirting with that stupid little mortal cop. The one that pulled you over for speeding.”

“… Okay, that’s kind of cute, but I wasn’t flirting because I liked his uniform!”

“You shouldn’t have been flirting at _all_ , but I figured you might as well flirt with me if you like the damn uniform so much. Do you know how embarrassing it is to go in and buy one of these outfits?” Derek twisted at the waist, jabbing the nightstick in Stiles’ direction, “they measure you and ask questions and I had to be on the lookout for the pack. And you’re making fun of me. For trying to do something nice. I oughta—“

Stiles leaned over and kissed him. Just kissed him, because that was a sure-fire way to shut Derek up mid rant _and_ not get himself beaten for the trouble, and he kissed him because somehow, maybe by mistake, Derek was being absolutely adorable. Like insecure-and-vulnerable adorable. Like help-me adorable.

His hands slid into Derek’s hair, feathering it away from his face, his mouth opening beneath that flicker of tongue, that soft pull of teeth and the scrape of fangs on his lower lip. He shifted forwards, climbing into Derek’s lap with a sigh, his knee bumping against the plasticky gun strapped to his waist. Something cold and wet shot out over his jeans when he touched it.

 _Don’t want to know_ , he thought, pulling at the rest of Derek’s shirt until it was halfway off and he could see _skin_.  
  
  
Derek’s hands ran up his back, following his spine, and Stiles didn’t know _how_ he did it just with that little touch, but his blood had gone to full-on boiling and his head felt light and fuzzy, and the air was suddenly too thick for his lungs. When he drew back from the kiss and opened his eyes, Derek was just looking at him, the way he did when they had a spare moment alone; the way that made Stiles know, suddenly, just about everything that he was thinking and feeling and wanting, as though someone had broken down the wall that kept him from showing so much to anyone.

“Y’know… you look hot as Officer Hale,” said Stiles, “but I kinda … never really wanted anything other than plain old Derek.”

“… Didn’t you?” Derek’s tone was carefully flat.

“No. Never. Just Derek. Just you. Just your grumpy, alpha male, broody wolf self.”

Derek nodded. His fingers moved against Stiles’ back, and then the world was shifting and Derek was laying him back against the bed, and the mattress was soft and warm beneath him. Derek was above him and kissing him, hard and quick and ‘fuck me now’ sudden, and he couldn’t breathe, let alone _think_ , and the shirt just tore off Derek’s body when he pulled at it. _Like any cop’d wear a shirt that’d have buttons like this_ , his brain told him, though he’d stopped listening to it a while ago.

“This is the part where you say ‘I want just you too’,” he groaned, arching his back as Derek’s _teeth_ ground into his neck, and his pulse was sent skyrocketing with a nibble.

“You already know,” said Derek, busy fumbling with his jeans, “you have to know. You’re _mine_. Don’t you know?” He raised his head, looked at him, almost like he was worried.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded his head, reaching out to grab his face, digging his nails in as Derek’s hand slid intimately low, “y-yeah, I know. I know, Derek, I know.”  
  
“Don’t forget it,” Derek warned, and bent to kiss him again.


End file.
